


Letting off Steam

by lbmisscharlie



Series: Short Skirts and Car Rides [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Car Sex, F/F, Female Ejaculation, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for these two prompts on the kinkmeme: <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5013.html?thread=17164181#t17164181">gimme some Anthea/Sally or Anthea/Molly love!</a> and <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5564.html?thread=18646204#t18646204">female ejaculation: Sally? Molly? Anthea? Don't care, just want some lady come.</a> Part Two of my Short Skirts and Car Rides series, which features Anthea shamelessly seducing the rest of the women of Sherlock.</p><p>Sally finds a new way to relax after a hard day's work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letting off Steam

It just started out as a way to let off steam after a rough night at a crime scene. That first night, the rain poured down in shoals. Anderson, the fucker, was back on with his wife, whatever that meant. The murder was violent and bloody but the victim was a scumbag slumlord who beat his wife, so you weren’t shedding any tears. Lestrade didn’t let you go until two A.M. and as you leave the building you almost crash into Mycroft-bloody-Holmes. He, of course, sidesteps in time and acknowledges your apologies with a mere tip of the head as he crosses the threshold. You turn up your collar and curse the rain, determined to seek out something greasy and fried before heading home to fall into bed. You barely notice the sleek black car parked at the curb until the window rolls down soundlessly and a face leans out. You’ve seen her at crime scenes before, Mycroft’s P.A., and yeah, you’ve noticed her. Hard not to, with her legs that go on for miles and those trim suits that hug every single damn curve. And ok, you’ve ogled a bit, but it’s not like she’d noticed, with her mind always on her Blackberry. Until now you’re not sure if you’ve ever seen her eyes but here they are, a rich, liquid brown looking at you with invitation.

“Need a lift?” You start to say something about not wanting to be a bother then think better of it. It’s raining, you’re halfway across town from home, and she’s infinitely better company than a cabbie. She slides over as you duck into the car but you still end up sitting mere inches from each other. Her phone is in her hand but her eyes are on you; she asks your address and you realize, embarrassed, that you don’t remember her name. Although, thinking back, it’s possible you never knew it in the first place. You think about if you should ask and decide to wait for a clue; perhaps the driver will address her?

You feel her touch on your forearm and all thoughts of social niceties fly out of your mind when she pulls you towards her and presses her lips against yours. Despite your surprise, you react, kissing back and reaching out a hand to grasp her shoulder. Her tongue snakes into your mouth; she’s direct, you’ve got to give her that. Her hand is at your waistband, impatiently tugging your blouse from your trousers and you help her, unbuttoning quickly and shrugging it off your shoulders. You unhook and remove your bra then reach for her blazer, pushing it off and watching as she quickly peels her silk camisole over her head. All fine lace and delicate mesh, her bra puts your own humble M&S one to shame, but to be honest you’re not all that interested in her undergarments. You reach for the clasp and she cocks a smile at the hunger in your eyes and lets you proceed.

Her breasts are full, topped by caramel colored nipples already hard with arousal and you cannot deny it, when it comes to women, you’ve always been a breast girl. You lean over and suck one nipple between your lips, rolling it gently; you hear a soft, gratifying sigh as she shifts almost imperceptibly closer to you. Sucking slightly, you flick your tongue across the tip while pinching the other nipple between your fingers; she’s biting her lower lip but stares back at you, heat in her eyes, when you look up. You can tell she likes it a little rough; as you play with her nipples, her breathing quickens with the scrape of your teeth and the tweak of your fingers.

Lifting her hips, she helps you raise her skirt up over her arse so you can slide one hand between her legs while you continue your attention to her nipples. She’s still wearing panties but you can feel her wetness through the fine mesh. Pushing them aside, you slip your fingers between her lips and quickly find her clit. Rubbing your finger over it in circles, you feel her hips cant toward you in silent encouragement. Her clit is hardened, engorged with blood, and as you stroke you feel the tightening of her thighs against your arm. Breath quickening, skin flushed, she’s close to orgasm yet you can’t shake the feeling that she’s still completely in control. Like she’s allowing you to feel in control while she plays you, a seduction in reverse. You flick your fingers, a little harder, a little faster, and she’s coming with one quick buck of the hips and a soft moan but she’s all attention a moment later. No blissed-out glaze to her eyes, no softening of muscles or loss of control.

Instead, she turns to face you, making quick work of removing your trousers and panties then grasping your thighs and maneuvering your body. She pulls your legs towards her so that you’re laying horizontally on the leather seat, one leg braced against the back of the driver’s seat, her thigh pressed right up against your cunt and you can feel the lace top of her stocking rubbing you just, oh, there. You gasp when she rocks into you, your nipples dragging against hers, and she grins against your lips. You wrap your other leg around her arse, pulling her body up against yours. Arching your back as she grinds her thigh into you, biting the soft flesh above your collarbone.

Her hands slides between your bodies and her fingers deftly find your clit, pulling the pooling wetness from your cunt upwards. Her fingertips swirl, pressing hard on the upstroke and just ghosting over your clit on each downstroke. The constant change in pressure teases you, bringing you up to the edge but not quite enough to push you over. Your heel digs into her hip as you pull her closer, fingernails digging into her shoulder.

“More…please, fuck,” you choke out. She smiles – she likes it when you beg, you can tell. “God, please, harder,” you encourage, and it works. Her fingers flick faster, her thigh pressed snug against her hand, adding pressure to your cunt. Your nerves fire electric, your muscles tense, and you forget everything but the pooling heat in your cunt. She’s rubbing harder and her mouth latches onto your nipple and you’re coming. You cry out, something primal and meaningless, as your come gushes into her hand. You jerk your hips upwards as she continues to fuck you through wave after wave, your fluids hot and slippery, squirting almost up to her elbow.

You frequently ejaculate when you come and therefore you know that not every lover appreciates it, but Anthea looks positively gleeful when she moves her hand to her mouth and slowly, deliberately, licks your juices off, each finger pushing through her full lips, her tongue swirling around the digits. Her eyes, sultry and challenging, bore into you and fuck if that mouth isn’t the hottest thing you have ever seen. You lunge forward and catch her lower lip between your teeth, licking inside of her to taste yourself in her mouth. Eyes open, you’re gratified to see a quick look of surprise before she kisses you back, regaining her dominance as she grasps the back of your neck and fucks into your mouth with her tongue.

She’s shimmied her skirt back into place – and oh, god, your come is splashed across the front but she doesn’t seem to care – and is just finishing the last button on her blouse when the car comes to a stop. “Your flat, I believe.”

You quickly pull on your trousers and do up your blouse; you’re frighteningly disheveled and you’ve stuffed your bra into your purse and are starting to feel a blush of embarrassment. She looks at you with a smile part kindly, part excited, but not at all pityingly, you notice with relief.

“I’ve enjoyed myself immensely, Sergeant Donovan. I do hope to see you again soon.” She unlatches the door and pushes it open. As you step out into what has now become a fine drizzle, she says, “Oh, and you can call me Anthea.”


End file.
